Chapter Forty-Five #2
Fuck. God, that’s really sad. I picture him in that big empty house all on his own, lighting a single candle and blowing the flame out, hoping it will reach me.
I think it did. My birthdays were so hard while he was away.
I never threw parties or did anything big.
I couldn’t. Not without him. Felt weird.
I knew I wouldn’t be able to enjoy myself but the fact he did that…
? I don’t know. Has anyone done that for you before?
It’s touching. It’s nice to be remembered.
I didn’t do that for him. I didn’t think to do that for him but he did. He thought about me to do that. He left, I also left—I forced myself to move on while he waited, and still waits.
“I don’t wanna do that again,” he tells me. “I don’t wanna celebrate your birthdays in private anymore. I want your next birthday and all the other ones you’ll give me.”
“I know, but—”
His shoulders slump and his eyes turn hooded.
“I don’t want to wait. Waited long enough, haven’t I?
I can wait for anything and anyone else but not you,” he shakes his head, staring at me.
“I’m impatient when it comes to you. It fucking kills me, this waiting around. I don’t know what to do with myself.”
Before I can say anything, Connie shouts his name, nodding his head. He gives me a small smile before pushing away from the bar and walking over to him.
I don’t want to wait, either. I’m tired of it.
I waited every day for almost three years for him.
I never left where we were at eighteen. I’m still there, in my Darcy uniform, screaming at him to get clean.
And even though it’s different now, it won’t ever go back to being like that.
Any change is scary. It doesn’t matter if the before was turbulent and unsettling.
I’m still stepping away, leaving that version of us that I hold so closely to my chest. Arthur shaped my childhood years, my pivotal years and I want him to hand craft the rest of my adult years.
I go over to the toilets to calm myself down a bit but before I manage to push the door open, someone grabs ahold of my elbow.
“Phoebe.”
His voice makes me feel prickly but I turn around anyway.
“Digby.”
“Can we talk?” He swallows, eyes softening.
“Not particularly.”
“Fair enough, but I think we need to.”
“What do you need to say?”
“Happy birthday…?” He frowns, pulling a face.
“You’re wasting my time. I have places to be.”
“Yeah?” He looks shocked. “Where?”
Stick my nose in the air. “Paris.”
He pulls back. “Paris? What for?”
I squint, lick my lips, think for a short second. “A massage.”
“A massage?”
I tilt my head. “Have you turned into a Parrot?”
“Why are you going all the way to Paris for a massage?”
“Because your bed is hard as rocks and now my spinal discs have slid.”
He stares at me, his lips quivering. I glance away, let myself smile for a second before facing back to him.
Digby smiles, clears his throat. “Look, Phoebe, we need to talk, yeah? I’m sorry. I am.” He shrugs like he has nothing left to lose. “I want you to be happy—it’s all I’ve ever wanted—so if being with Arthur will make you happy then you do that.”
I nod. “Thank you. I’m sorry, too. I treated you terribly and I was wrong for that. I know you loved me, Digby.”
He sniffs. “Still do, I think. And from what I’ve seen, that doesn’t seem like an easy thing to get over so sorry for—”
“For being in love with me?”
He nods, hangs his head. “Yeah.”
“Don’t be. We can’t help who we fall in love with, I’m just sorry I didn’t fall in love with you. It’s not fair, is it? But,” I swallow, sigh. “I am happy with Arthur—and unfortunately he’s the only boy I’ve ever loved.”
He looks up at me through his lashes. “You didn’t love me just a bit?”
“Love is such a loaded word. Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. In my books, I don’t think I did, but in yours I might’ve.”
“Fuck,” he mutters, pushes his hand through his hair.
He twists his lips, gives me a grin. “Really enjoyed being with you, though, Phoebe. I can see why Arthur is the way he is with you. It all makes sense now.” He squints, like he’s uncomfortable.
“I’m sorry, as well, actually, for taking you away from him.
What you two have is unheard of—I don’t know anyone else like you two. You need to hold onto that, Phoebs.”
I nod, staring above his head so I don’t cry. “I enjoyed being with you Digby. I didn’t hate you. I never did. I just didn’t love you. Not like I love him.”
“I get it,” he tells me. “I was selfish when it came to you but it’s over now, ain’t it?”
I pluck up the courage to look him in the eye. “Yeah, it’s all over now.”
He nods his chin at me, opens his arms and I go to him for one last hug. Digby rests his chin on the top of my head. “I loved loving you.”
“I loved you, loving me,” I say against his chest.
“And I’m sorry again for all the shit, I was a right dick to you.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “You were but I wasn’t any better.”
And maybe I wish I did love him. Maybe if I did love him, things would be simpler.
If Arthur was never in the picture, my life would be so easy.
Every morning would start the same and every night would end the same.
We’d probably live abroad—he always spoke about it—but I love England so I wouldn’t be happy.
He’d want kids, too. He never said it but he’s the type of person to want kids.
He’d want a mix of girls and boys and name them something outlandish and ridiculous.
I probably wouldn’t get a say in the names.
We’d see our families every few months and I’d end up red from being in the sun too long.
Since when have any of those things been me, though? I can’t have kids, I love being with my family and I hate being sweaty from the sun. My entire life with Digby would be a constant state of overstimulation and discomfort which sounds so much worse than what Arthur can give me.
Arthur can give me all the trauma and all the pain in the world and yet it’d still feel more like love.
Our love is a piece of string that stretches around all seven planets and all infinite numbers of universes.
We don’t know how many universes there are exactly so I guess the string will continue to stretch and stretch until we find a number.
And although this string is frayed and tattered and ripping at certain points, I don’t think we’re going to be finding an exact number of universes anytime soon.
And it’s in that moment that I lift my head to see Arthur staring straight at us—at Digby and I wrapped around one another. Before I can pull away, he shakes his head and beelines it out of the restaurant.
“I have to go,” I tell Digby, ripping away from his hold.
I run through the restaurant, my heart hammering and potentially jumping straight out of my chest when I can’t find Arthur outside. The paparazzi try to stop me but I ignore them, legging it down Shad Thames until I spot the back of Arthur’s head at the bottom of Tower Bridge.
“Arthur!” I shout, my legs shaking with how fast I’m running.
My chest burns, aching with every staggered inhale but I’m not giving up. Not this time. Not now. Not even Manolo’s.
I catch all the way up with him when he slows down, walking down Tower Bridge.
“Arthur!”
He turns around as I slow to a stop, the wind hitting my face.
“What?” He shakes his head, standing a few feet away from me.
I sniff, my nose running. “It’s over,” I heave out.
He walks forward a couple steps. “What?”
I swallow even though my throat strings. “With Digby. It’s over.”
He continues walking forward, a slow smile pulling at his lips. With every step he takes over to me, my heart beats just a little bit faster. I don’t care about the paparazzi or the cars. Only him.
“It’s over,” I nod for his confirmation. “It’s done. We broke up.”
“Yeah?” He frowns, grinning. “Really?”
He’s just an inch or so out of my reach but not for long. I run over to him, straight into his chest. I sink into him, like I sunk into my bed with him so many years ago.
Arthur picks me up, presses his lips to mine. “It’s over, yeah?” He breathes heavily.
I nod. I feel something wet on my face. I think I’m crying.
This is it. For me. For him. For us. Chasing after him down Tower Bridge on a freezing November night. I feel like I’ve been running for so long, so many years—even before he went away—and only now I feel like I’ve stopped to rest my legs.
I don’t know what else to say to you apart from this is it. He’s sober and now I get the ending I always wanted. I waited for him, he waited for me. What else do we need to wait for?
So many tears and goodbyes and watching from a distance that it sort of feels a bit like I’ve made it now, to the finish line. I don’t need to run anymore. I can rest here, with him.
“I love you,” he says against my lips, his smile matching my own.
“I love you more.”
You know when something feels like the end? Feels like forever but in a good way? Not in a death sentence kind of way? For two years, five months and twenty-two days I’ve waited for this very moment. I can finally throw the letter I’ve been clutching onto away and go back to sleep.